Stockholmes Syndrome
by GeekOfAwesome
Summary: Based very very loosely on Beauty and the Beast, this is an ongoing Sheriarty story that I'm doing with my fabulous collaborator, Sherlocked-With-Loki. Tons of smut, hints of Johnlock, as well as some Moran/Sherlock. Rated M for a reason.
1. In Which Moriarty Says Hello

**Good Lord, it's been ****_ages_**** since I uploaded something! Quick little update on my life- I've gotten into Doctor Who and Sherlock, so expect a lot of that. I've deleted all my old stories. I'm going for a sort of fresh start. **

**Anyways, this is an ongoing roleplay over email with my lovely collaborator Sherlocked-With-Loki which sort of follows a Beauty and the Beast storyline but with Sherlock and Moriarty. It's ultra dirty, so cover your eyes, children! Anyways, rated M for a reason. Enjoy!**

* * *

Blood dripped from his chafed wrists, the rough fibers of the rope cutting viciously into his skin as punishment for his earlier attempts at fighting. His feet are tied together as well, though that had been before he'd woken up. The same could not be said for his face, where he had a scrape above his lip and over his eye- given after he'd attempted to head-but the man trying to gag him. The duct tape was secure now, though, seeing as how he'd rather been knocked into a daze for a few moments after the blow to his head. Unfortunate.

After that, he'd been forced into a kneeling position on his own floor, though he refused to lower his glare at either of the two thugs who'd attacked him while John was out. His mind is quickly rattling off their weak points, eyes a better judge than some (most) bioscanners. A door creaks and he turns his head in the direction the sound came from, eyes narrowing. He'd hoped it was John, but he has no doubt that John is still at the clinic and thus unlikely to arrive any time soon. Not that he needed John in order to escape, though it'd most certainly have been helpful. Of course the how was still a mystery, but he felt sure he'd think of something.

The thought seems to go flying out the window as a familiar form appears in the doorway, one he'd rather hoped never to see again. Well-polished leather shoes walk forward, coming to rest in front of him, their wearer bearing a confident smirk as he looks down at Sherlock. "Hello, virgin."

Sherlock tugged at the ropes, trying not to show how desperately he was struggling. He tried to pull his wrists away, feeling the blood drip down one of his palms. He winced and then forced himself to look up defiantly at Moriarty's eyes. "Let me go." He attempted to say, but it all came out as a muffled whimper.

Even with the gag in, the expression on the other man's face is easy enough to read. Jim's lips quirk in amusement, and he nudges Sherlock with the tip of his shoe. "Well, someone's being awfully unfriendly." He pouts. "I arranged this just for you and all you can do is glare at me? That's not very nice."

The detective continued to glower, scowling down at the tip of to Moriarty's shoe on his chest. He wanted so badly to say something snarky, put this damn criminal in his place. But in his current situation, that was aggravatingly impossible. He struggled even more, wrenching his wrists and tugging at his legs. He swore, the tape across his mouth silencing the profanities.

Jim sighs, crouching to his level. "I'd stop tugging on the ropes, darling. Wouldn't want anything to get dislocated." He drawls. "I suppose that if you can behave in that respect, I might be able to arrange for the duct tape to go away, hm? Think you can do that, or shall I leave it on throughout our little meeting?"

Sherlock stopped struggling, only because it would take at least an hour to break the ropes and he doubted he had that much time before he was killed or before the 'little meeting' was over. And besides, he needed the ability to speak. He let out a deep breath, bracing himself for getting the tape ripped off.

Jim smirked, patting Sherlock's cheek condescendingly. "Good boy." His other hand comes up as well, hooking a fingernail beneath the edge of the duct tape -surprisingly careful not to scratch the detective's cheek- and grips the edge for a moment before pulling, the tape coming off in a neat strip.

Sherlock tried not to make a noise of pain, and moved his lips a little bit, getting used to the feeling of using them again. He turned up his head and glared at Moriarty. "What was your purpose in this? What do you want with me? If you wanted to have a little meeting, you could have just texted me." He started to squirm again.

Jim rolls his eyes at the laughably unsubtle squirming. "Oh, stop, would you? I've no intention of killing you unless necessary at this point; so do calm down." Not killing, yes. Not necessarily meaning he'd remain unharmed- though tugging at the ropes would do nothing to stop either, if he so intended. "What? Can't I just drop by for a friendly visit?"

"This is hardly friendly." Sherlock scoffed, "What are you intending?" He asked, trying to stop his voice from shaking. It was rather frightening, actually, seeing Moriarty bearing down on him while he could hardly move without blood dripping down his palms.

The criminal sighs. "Well, friendly considering my usual methods," he corrects, smiling. "I just thought I'd come and have some fun with my favourite detective," he says, hand brushing Sherlock's cheekbones. "If you cooperate, it might actually be pleasurable for you as well."

Sherlock shivered slightly, his chest tightening up. "I... I'm not..." He stammered. "I'm not sure what you mean." He continued to stammer and shook faintly. He was actually a little bit afraid at this moment. "Just untie me."

Jim smirks, chuckling as his hand trails from his cheekbone down to the sliver of pale skin exposed by his opened collar, fingers brushing lightly over the alabaster flesh. "Oh, come now, darling, I'm sure you can piece it together."

Sherlock thought it over for a moment and then gasped softly. "No..." He whispered, his eyes growing wide. "I... you can't..." He said, his heartrate jumping wildly. "You can't possibly mean..."

Moriarty grins, fingers deftly beginning to undo the buttons. He leans forwards, lips brushing Sherlock's ear, head tilted slightly to the side to avoid any foolish attempts at headbutting him. "After tonight, you won't have to worry about that nickname of yours anymore," he breathes.

Sherlock froze, slight tingles running down his spine at the lips in his ear. He was frightened, but he was desperate not to show it. "I... don't..." He mumbled, tugging on the bonds around his wrists desperately. He felt continuous tingles running up and down his skin wherever Moriarty touched him.

Moriarty shushes him, peeling the shirt open over his chest and pushing it down to wrap around his wrists. "If you're not interested, I could always go fetch Johnny boy. I'm sure he'd be more than happy to take your place."

Sherlock glared at him and shook his head. "Don't you dare hurt John." He hissed, his chest tightening painfully with fear for himself and his friend."Don't you dare." He repeated.

Jim smirks, running his hands over the lightly toned planes of the detective's chest."Well then you'll be good for daddy, won't you?"

"Daddy?" Sherlock grimaced, disliking the patronizing tone but at the same time enjoying the light touches along his chest.

"Problem?" he hums, fingers swirling lightly around the tanned peaks on his chest, knowing they'll be oversensitive to someone as inexperienced as Sherlock.

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat and he felt a bit of heat stirring in his veins. "I... er..." He mumbled, biting the side of his lip hard and trying not to make any further noises.

Jim smiles, rolling the hardening nubs between his fingers playfully and licking a stripe down the side of Sherlock's neck, teeth scraping over the sensitive skin above his jugular.

Sherlock stayed absolutely still with his lips clamped shut to stop him from moaning. He closed his eyes, trying to imagine something that would make his increasing issue go down a little, so to speak.

Jim smirks against the rapidly heating skin, running his

lips over the prominent jawline before pressing against his lips, tongue darting out to demand entrance.

Sherlock kept his lips shut firmly before giving in and parting them slightly, bending into Moriarty's skillful touch.

Jim's tongue darts inside, and his hands drift further downwards, hooking beneath the man's waistband as he explores the man's mouth.

Sherlock felt uncomfortable and comfortable at the same time. His pants were far too tight for one thing, and it felt rather strange to have someone's tongue in his mouth- overpowering. He moved his tongue as well, trying to push into Moriarty's mouth.

Moriarty allows Sherlock's tongue entrance, kiss deepening. His hand slips beneath the hem of his trousers and cups his growing hardness, squeezing once, teasingly.

Sherlock made a muffled noise and he arched his back, bucking his hips involuntarily into Moriarty's touch. He continued to fight his tongue, but leaned into his hand.

Jim doesn't allow Sherlock to become dominant, forcing his tongue further pointedly. He begins stroking lightly with his fingers, forcing the detective to start thrusting if he wants it.

Sherlock whimpered a little, then cursed himself for making such a weak noise. Infuriatingly enough, his hips kept bucking and his back continued to arch so he was completely leaning into the psychopath's fingers. His body was moving completely on it's own and it aggravated him to no end.

He grins against the other's lips, as he pulls away to breathe giving a small chuckle. "Feels good, doesn't it?" His hand tightens, increasing friction. "It gets even better. Just relax," he murmurs, trapping his lips in a bruising kiss to swallow down any reply.

Sherlock moaned softly, then again a bit louder as he allowed Jim's tongue to overtake his own. The sensation was sensual and amazing. Lord, this man was amazing.

He chuckles slightly at the moan, pressing against Sherlock and gently forcing him onto his back, kneading at the detective's hardness. "Like that?" he murmurs.

"I... God... yes..." Sherlock moaned, lifting his hips up further. He was completely incoherent, and his mind no longer made so much noise. "More." He begged.

He moves his hand away for a moment, tugging Sherlock's trousers and pants down around his knees and baring his member to the cool air of the room. "Tell me what you want."

Sherlock thought that over for a few seconds. What _did _he want? He glanced up at Moriarty, in all his power and control, and then glanced down at himself- bound, naked, humiliated, and utterly turned on. It didn't take a genius to figure out what he wanted. "Fuck me." He said, his low baritone voice weak and pleading.

Jim smirks dominantly, unbuttoning his own trousers with one hand as his other toys with the man's hardness, swirling around the tip playfully as he slips his pants down, trouser open to free his own hardened member.

Sherlock continued to moan, shutting his eyes and continuing to lean into his nemesis. "Fuck me." He repeated, pleading. "God, Moriarty, just fuck me."

Jim smirks, smearing his own precome over his cock, slightly regretting not bringing lubricant. "Say please," he singsongs, slipping a single finger into the man's tight ring of muscle.

"Please!" Sherlock cried as he felt Moriarty's finger inside himself. It was such a new sensation, and a wonderful one at that. "Oh, God, please fuck me!" He begged.

He slips another finger inside, scissoring gently. "Oh, I will. Tell me how you want it."

Sherlock could hardly speak between groans and gasps. "I... I want it rough." He decided through moans and shuddering breaths.

He nods, smirking, and slips his fingers out, bringing his hips forwards, the tip of his member nudging at the circle of muscle before sliding in, slowly at first before sheathing himself in one smooth movement.

Sherlock let out a cry of pleasure and pain, slumping over a little. "Christ, Moriarty!" He moaned loudly. It was a new, curious feeling. It numbed his mind with pleasure and left him feeling incoherent. "More!" He begged, forgoing all dignity.

He obliges, pulling out to the tip before pushing quickly back in, kissing Sherlock and loving the detective's new lack of control beneath his hands. He begins to setup a rhythm, pelvis meeting Sherlock's cheeks with every thrust

Sherlock continued to let out a stream of profanities and religious names, along with 'Yes's and moans. He rocked back and forth along with the rhythm of his thrusts.

His hand reaches between them to stroke Sherlock as he continues thrusting, panting silently but somehow still looking entirely in control. "My name's not God," he chuckles at some point, smirking.

"Shut up." Sherlock replied through gritted teeth, his muscles tensing for a moment and then relaxing. He knew he was about to come- he had done some minor research on sex, mostly for the Woman's case. "I'm... I'm going to..." He said vaguely.

Jim strokes him faster, pressing a kiss to his neck. "Come on then." He's vaguely amused. Less than three minutes and he's already going to climax.

Sherlock knew he was inexperienced, and that this was far too soon, but all the same, he moaned loudly and climaxed, releasing.

He continues thrusting, enjoying the way the man tightens around him, and he finishes soon after, electing not to drag it out. He sighs, smiling down at Sherlock before an indiscernible noise from the doorway.

Sherlock barely heard the noise, simply laid on the floor, his hands still bound as well as his legs and his trousers pulled down to his knees, his thoughts incoherent.

John, standing in the doorway, stares at the scene for a long moment- and no those weren't tears, his eyes were just sweating- before he turns sharply on his heel, Tescos bags forgotten at the top of the staircase as he runs down the stairs, door slamming shut loudly behind him as he flees the apartment, chest constricting.


	2. In Which Moriarty is Quite Chivalrous

**The title of this chapter is meant to be really sarcastic, jus' saying. I wonder what Moriarty was like during Chivalry Week in high school, because he ****_really _****must've had some issues.**

**Anyways, this is where it gets more Beauty and the Beast-y.**

* * *

Sherlock glanced up and realized something for a moment. "Was... was that John?" He asked, his voice breathless and frightened. God, John had seen him after getting fucked by Moriarty? Jim shrugs. "Yeah, so?" Sherlock struggled suddenly to sit up and get his trousers back on. "He just saw you... you..." He stammered, blushing darkly.

Jim raises a brow. "Obviously. I'm fairly certain he isn't blind." He leans forwards, hands coming up to press Sherlock's shoulders back to the floor. "Why do you care?" Sherlock struggled, his previous panic returning. "He-he's my friend and my flatmate and..." He trailed off. God, he _cared _about John, didn't he? "And he just walked in to see you shagging me!" He said, moving away slightly. "Let me go!"

Jim laughs. "And? What are you going to do, pray tell? 'It's not what it looked like, John,' 'Okay so I shagged the most wanted man in Europe and loved it,' 'Please come back I can find a way to erase your memory?'" he mocks.

Sherlock scowled at him and managed to sit up. "I hate you." He spat. "Now untie me." He said, struggling violently.

Jim sat back on his haunches, eyes dark. "No."

Sherlock tugged at the bonds and wrestled with them viciously. "God dammit, let me _go!"_

Jim sighs, shaking his head slightly as his hand dips into his waistcoat, and he withdraws a syringe with a milky liquid inside. "This would have been a lot easier for you if John hadn't shown up. Remember that." Sherlock froze at the sight of the syringe. "What... what are you doing?" He asked, his eyes widening. He struggled even more, his heart rate increasing. "Moriarty stop playing your stupid games and untie me! You got what you wanted!"

He uncaps the syringe, flicking the vial with his finger before turning to Sherlock, twirling the needle in his fingers. "I suggest you hold still." Sherlock froze again, holding his breath. He was absolutely terrified. "M-Moriarty, what are... what are you doing?" He asked, his voice quivering. Jim placed the needle against Sherlock's skin, still bared seeing as how pulling up trousers while tied up is rather hard. "Well, I can't allow you to go back to John," he says lightly, injecting the substance into Sherlock's veins.

Sherlock gasped and then fell limp, his eyes fluttering shut. He opened them after a minute and looked around, feeling dazed and confused. "I..."

"Shhh," Jim hums, pulling a knife from his pocket to slice through the ropes. "Come on then, up we go. Pull up your trousers and fix your shirt, please."

Sherlock nodded numbly, feeling confused. His wrists were bleeding- that was odd. He stood up and pulled his trousers up and buttoned his shirt, rubbing his wrists. He cuts through the bonds at his ankles as well, leaving the syringe lying on the floor as he stands, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's shoulders. "Let's get out of here." He knows very well that Mycroft Holmes has a camera watching the front of the flat, and smirks and waves at it as he guides Sherlock out to a Bentley idling on the opposite curb.

Sherlock allowed himself to be led. His mouth felt dry, and his head was pounding. There had been a syringe... and heat... and blood? His ankles and wrists hurt. "What..." He mumbled. "Shhh, it's fine. You're fine." True- at least for the next two hours before the drug wears off. He looks at Moran, in the driver's seat. "Drive, we don't have all day." Sherlock felt his mind trying to work, but it all seemed like his thoughts were stuck far behind him. He felt sleepy as well, but at the same time, he didn't want to close his eyes.

It takes most of those 120 minutes to get to the safehouse- 97, to be exact. He escorts Sherlock out of the car and into the house, guiding him up the stairs to the bedroom- which, obviously, is more of a cell than a guestroom considering that there's no way out unless Jim himself unlocks it.

Each minute, Sherlock's mind got slightly clearer. By the 100th minute of his odd mental state, he started to recognize faces. Moriarty was the one leading him. Something was wrong with Moriarty- he didn't like him or something.

The criminal ushers him inside, stepping in after him and locking the door behind them. He gestures for Sherlock to sit, taking a seat in the second armchair of the room. All things considered, it's a very nice cell- but a cell nonetheless.

Sherlock sat down in the chair and looked around, a large portion of his sense taking over. "I... where... how did...?" He mumbled in confusion, then turned to Moriarty. "You." He stated. Jim resists the urge to sigh. "Me. Do finish your sentences, Sherlock, it's terribly irritating when you don't." Sherlock looked around again. "How did I get here? I was just in the..." He paused. "The syringe! You... you drugged me!" He said, standing up abruptly. "Let me go Moriarty, I mean it!"

He examines his nails minutely, brushing off a nonexistent speck. "I'm sure you are," he drawls. "However, that's not really up to you any more."

Sherlock moved forward and grabbed Moriarty by the shoulders and slammed him against the wall. "Let me go." He commanded.

Jim laughs, unfazed by their current position. "No. You wouldn't even know where to go if I did. We could be in a completely different country by now and you wouldn't even know it."

"Tell me where I am and let me go!" He said, trying to cover up how frightened he was by his situation. He had been drugged and brought somewhere he didn't know by this insane man and there was no chance of escape.

Jim snorts. "No. There's no reason to tell you, and plenty of reason to keep you here," he replies, hand coming up to run down Sherlock's cheek.

Sherlock let him go and stumbled back, holding his cheek. The feeling was all too familiar and nice. He hated it. "I... I don't want this." He whispered.

Jim smiles at him. "Your body disagrees, darling. It's nothing to be ashamed of, dear. I take good care of my pets."

"I'm not your pet!" Sherlock spat, regretting the way he had allowed Moriarty to _possess _him that way. "Just.. let me go. Back to 221 Baker street." He was trying hard not to beg.

Jim's face darkens, and he takes a step forwards, expression taking on a more predatory feel. His patience is beginning to run dangerously thin. "No."

Sherlock cowered a little and took a step back, stumbling into the chair. "What... what are you planning to do with me?" He asked, fear gripping his heart.

He grins, though it's not entirely friendly. "That all depends on whether you're good for me or not," he replies. "Come here."

Sherlock hesitated for a moment and stood, walking over to Moriarty with slight, unsure steps. His stomach squirmed. Jim tilts his head, smirking at the detective, slightly irritated that he has to look up to meet his eyes. "Kneel down."

Sherlock was tempted to shake his head and snap Moriarty's neck, but in this situation, he figured it would be better to comply. He slowly bent down and knelt on the floor.

Jim nods, tangling a hand in the brown curls on his head. "Good boy. Now unzip me."

Sherlock looked up at him for a moment in surprise, then sighed softly in resignation. He had no choice in this, anyways. He reached up and unzipped Jim's pants.

He rolls his neck, feeling a rush of adrenaline to the head- accompanied by a rush of blood to the groin- at the sight of the headstrong and typically powerful detective kneeling at his feet. "You know what to do."

He hesitated. He knew exactly what he was expected to do. He hesitated for a moment and then took Moriarty's length in his mouth, gagging slightly.

His fingers scratch lightly at the man's scalp, and he begins thrusting shallowly, sighing. "Oh come on, you can do better than that," he says. "Be creative."

Sherlock felt the need to impress Moriarty, though he wasn't sure why. He hollowed out his cheeks and repressed his gag reflex a little to take all of him in.

He groans, head leaning back against the wall. Damn, for a virgin, the man is pretty damn good at giving head. "There we go," he murmurs, hadn tightening slightly in Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock felt an odd surge of pride at having impressed Moriarty, and swallowed around him, trying to do things that would bring him more praise.

He's pleasantly surprised as Sherlock actually blushes slightly, seeming pleased with the praise. He bites down a laugh. /Not a pet, my arse./ He cards his hands through Sherlock's hair, gasping when Sherlock swallows around him. "Fuck," he breathes.

Sherlock hollowed out his cheeks even more, sucking hard. Once he managed to get to the base, he grated it softly with his teeth, not enough to hurt, of course.

He hisses slightly, the teeth a pleasant contrast to the wet heat encasing the rest of him. His hand tightens in the brunet curls, and he thrusts forwards slightly.

Sherlock winced a little, but continued with his actions, increasing them as much as he could. He didn't know why he was trying so hard, but he liked the praise.

Jim moans, and somewhere in the back of his mind he wonders how the bloody hell a virgin- well, until earlier- is this good at giving a blowjob. "Good, great, keep going."

Sherlock nodded briefly and kept going, as was demanded. He knew it probably wasn't a good idea to show exactly how much he knew about sex, but he craved praise.

He can't help but relate the detective to an eager little puppy, and the thought makes him smile even as he feels himself approaching climax. He's too lazy to warn the man as he releases down his throat, letting out a soft gasp.

Sherlock pulled away, slightly discomforted by the hot liquid in his mouth. He swallowed, making a face. It wasn't bad, but the imagery was just... He sat back on his haunches and sighed softly.

He smirks, tucking himself away and straightening his shirt, looking down at the man. "Not bad."

He nodded numbly. "Is that why you brought me here?" He asked. "To be your concubine?" He asked with irritation.

"Part of it," he admits. "Though if you're unhappy with that option, I'm sure Sebastian would be more than happy to have some knife practice."

"So either I... either I become your plaything or you let Moran cut me up?" Sherlock asked, frowning. "Do I even have much of a choice?" He shook his head slightly. "Fine. I'll be your /pet/" He spat.

"You don't sound too terribly happy, darling," he sighs, tsking. "Perhaps I should let him anyways. He has been asking for quite some time," he muses.

Sherlock looked down. "Fine... I'll... be your pet." He repeated, making his voice a bit more affectionate, despite how painful it was.

He continues on, seemingly unhearing. "And you did slam me against a wall. That wasn't very nice. I'd say that deserves punishment, don't you think?"

"Please don't let Moran cut me." Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "Please." He repeated, blushing darkly. He hated begging, but at the same time loved it.

He sighs, pursing his lips and regarding Sherlock. "Well, only since you asked so nicely," he sighs, patting Sherlock condescendingly on the head.

Sherlock tried not to spit on him and shook his head away. "What do you plan to do in the long term? How long am I supposed to be here?" He asked, deciding to focus on how he could escape or how long it would be until he was let go.

He raises a brow, chuckling slightly. "Oh, dear. Whatever makes you think that you'll be leaving in any case?" he asks, smirking.

He looked up, eyes widening. "Y-you're going to keep me here forever?" He asked in shock. He would never see John again, or see Mrs. Hudson, or 221 B. He'd just disappear and be kept here to be Moriarty's pet.

"Well of course. I wouldn't go through all this trouble just to have a pet for a few weeks. I imported a drug from Columbia just to make sure I could get you here."

Sherlock stayed quiet, trying to accept his fate. He tucked his knees up to his chest and rubbed his eyes. "I... I don't want to stay here forever." He whispered.

Jim laughs, cold and snide and mocking. "Where do you want to go? You really think John will care if you disappeared. You know he loves you. And he came upstairs to see you shagging the man who strapped him to a Semtex vest. He won't want you back. You're a tenant to Mrs Hudson and an arrogant ass to the Yard. Who's going to want you?"

Sherlock glared up at him, though inside he was truly hurt. "Leave me alone. A moment of privacy, if you don't mind." He stood up and straightened his shirt, trying to be confident.

Jim sighs, rolling his neck. "It's adorable, really. That you think they care. You call yourself a sociopath, but you get so attached to normal people so very quickly. And you know what? They all use you. John using you to chase memories of battle and gunfire. Lestrade's using you as a sniff dog. Mrs. Hudson's using you for money, because God knows no one else is going to rent out that flat. How do you think John's feeling? Seeing me in the position he's wanted for so long and knowing you allowed your nemesis to take it rather than him? What do you think The Yard will do when they find out you've run off with me? They won't question it. You know they never trusted you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to block out the words. "Go away. Leave me alone so I can come to terms with the fact that I'm going to be a sex slave for a psychopath." He grumbled, standing and walking over to the chair. "And for the record, you manipulated me with all of this." He added quickly. "Now go away. Do that _one _thing for me."

"Sociopath," he corrects again. "And it's not as if you didn't enjoy it. You were practically falling apart with a few words of praise. And you didn't seem to be complaining when I fucked you on your own floor. 'Please Jim, fuck me,'"

Sherlock remained silent and closed his eyes, going into his mind palace, trying to remember something about the car trip here. He had been drugged, he knew that much, but he didn't remember a large amount. _Someone _had to come and save him. They _had _to. He thought to himself desperately.

**It got too long, so I'm leaving it off there. Suspense, bla bla. The drug Moriarty used was Scopolamine, by the way.**


	3. In Which Sherlock Faints

Jim snarls. He /hates/ being ignored. He's crossed the room in a few quick strides, and his foot slams a sharp kick into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock yelled as the chair he was sitting in was pushed back a full two feet. He moved his hand up to his chest, pain shooting throughout his body. So, Moriarty didn't like being ignored- he filed that information away and closed his eyes again, clamping his lips shut.

His hand wraps around Sherlock's neck, deceptively strong for his small and slight frame. Sherlock is pulled from the chair and pressed against the wall, Jim's face dark with anger.

Sherlock felt the hands around his neck and almost winced, but remained completely calm with a serene expression on his face. Infuriating Moriarty was all he had left.

Jim brings his face close to Sherlock's, lips brushing the other's ear in a way that was a hell of a lot less friendly than before. "Be careful what you do. I can make your life a living hell in every sense of the word. If you push me, I will rip you to shreds and then you'll understand why storms are named after people," he hisses.

Sherlock dug his nails into his palms. "I... fine." He said, opening his eyes and looking into Moriarty's cold pupils. "Fine." He repeated, wriggling slightly. "Just please give me a moment to myself."

Jim smirks slightly, shaking his head. "No." He pulls away, smirk staying up as he looks at Sherlock. "Sebastian, darling! Come on in!"

Sherlock's heart stopped for a moment and he felt heat on his cheeks. He barely knew Sebastian Moran, but he did know that the man was extremely dangerous, and he didn't have the sort sick humour Moriarty did. It was embarrassing to be seen like this.

The door opens, and a tall blond- the man who'd tied him up back at 221 B- walks in, a long scar faintly visible along the side of his neck and disappearing beneath his shirt collar. He shoots a questioning glance in Jim's direction, awaiting instruction.

Jim turns to look at him, stepping towards the door and stopping next to Sebastian. "Have fun. You know the rules. Just make sure not to beat him too badly, I'll need him tonight." And with that, he leaves the room, and Sherlock's left alone with the world's number one sniper and England's second most wanted.

Sherlock turned to Moran, a bit of fear still in his heart. Every one of his muscles tensed in expectancy, and a bit of adrenaline started to pump into him. He was going to fight a sniper, he was going to fight the second most wanted man in all the world. He knew he would lose. It was inevitable. _Do your worst_, he thought to himself. He was numb from Moriarty's words, and could care less what happened now.

Just from a glance, he can tell that Jim's already done a number on the detective. Not really surprising, to be honest. The look of apathy in the man's eyes was familiar, most of their 'visitors' had worn it at some point or another. Of course, Sebastian knew how to break the apathy faster than it'd come about, and he knows this one will be fun. His eyes scan Sherlock slowly, a small grin curling his lips as he takes a step forwards.

Sherlock stayed completely still, paralyzed with fear and anticipation at what was to come. He wanted to scream and run from this man, but he had no where to run and screaming wouldn't prolong his fate.

Sebastian stalks forwards, the reason for the nickname of 'Tiger' becoming clearer with each step- and Sherlock plays a brilliant prey. He chuckles lowly, circling the man predatorily. "Well, if it isn't the great Sherlock Holmes. I've heard quite a bit about you. You killed a few of my friends," he says, voice light but his tone is laced with danger.

Sherlock remained completely still. "Stop with the monologue and get it over with. You're boring me." He said, his tone casual and nonchalant. Apathy was the best option for him right now- acting as though he was calm was his only defense.

He laughs at the statement. The voice is spot on, the face an impassive mask, but the tense lines of his shoulders give away his fear. He smirks slightly. Soon it won't just be the shoulders. He hums slightly, hand trailing across the back of the man's neck. "Shirt off." His tone is clear. /Don't, and I'll do it for you./

"Oh, I'm absolutely afraid." He drawled, unbuttoning his shirt. "I've already gone through all of that with Moriarty. Something new, if you don't mind." He yawned theatrically and tossed his shirt to the side, clasping his hands behind his back.

He smirks, reaching into his pocket and flipping open his switchblade. He pauses for a moment, considering, before digging the blade into the upper arm of the detective. The stab is shallow but well placed, located over a bundle of nerves and a pressure point. Painful to even pinch, let alone be stabbed.

Sherlock hadn't expected a blade- he had expected blows. He crumpled to the ground and groaned, holding his shoulder. With a deep breath, he stood up shakily. "A knife? Very creative." He continued with a tiny eye roll.

He resists the urge to snort. Not by a long shot. His hand dips into his pocket once again, handle of the blade held between his teeth as he roots around, finally finding the capsule he's feeling for. He pulls it out of his pocket, examining it for a moment before pressing the tip of the knife into it to create a small hole, slipping the capsule into the wound and holding it shut, knowing Sherlock will be trying to dig it out in the next few seconds.

Sherlock yelled out again, one hand scrabbling at the wound. After finding no purchase, he turned to face Moran. "What did you put in my wound?" He asked, his tone angry. "What?!" He repeated, continuing to try and pull the capsule out.

He just grins sharply, twirling the knife in his fingers as he waits for the liquid encase in the capsule to take effect.

**Quick side note: The liquid in the capsule basically makes your emotions exaggerated, sort of excels your emotional responses.**

Sherlock breathed heavily. His nail managed to pry open part of the wound, but it hurt too much and he yelled out in pain, stumbling back into the armchair. He felt a wave of dizziness come over him.

Sebastian rolls his neck, stepping closer to Sherlock, knife in hand. Best to test things first, he supposes. Any sane person backs away when someone approaches one with a knife. Particularly if Sebastian's at the other end.

Sherlock tried to move away, tears filling his eyes. In his scramble, he knocked the chair over and fell onto the ground, managing to stand and back away until he bumped into a wall. He had never felt this terrified. "What did you do to me?" He said, shocked at how weak his voice sounded.

Sebastian smirks. Definitely worked. And now the fun could begin. He smirks, knife glinting in the light. "I think a better question would be what I'm going to do".

Sherlock felt all the breath leave his lungs and all the blood drain from his face. "What... are..." He breathed, trying uselessly to grasp some of his sanity. His mind was failing him utterly. "Don't hurt me." He whimpered, eyes wide.

Sebastian hums, and he deftly flips the knife, which embeds itself in the wall next to Holmes' head."Well, that'd be no fun," he drawls, smiling darkly. "Boss did warn you."

Sherlock quivered. He had been reduced to a sniveling mess, he thought to himself with a stifled sob. "Please, please, I won't... I won't be bad again." He whimpered, continuing to try and move back, only ending up writhing against the wall.

Sebastian's finally standing in front of Sherlock, and his hands come up slowly to cage the man in against the wall. His fingers pry the knife from the wall, tracing it across the detective's collarbone, leaving a thin line of crimson. "Oh, I know you won't."

Sherlock whimpered again, still frozen as pain shot through him. He couldn't go back into his mind, he couldn't call for help because no help would come, and he had no shred of common sense left. He felt his weakened mind trying to cope with the situation, and the blood, when he felt a pounding in his ears and everything seemed to grow dark. Oh, God, was he _fainting? _He thought incredulously, right as he crumpled to the ground.

Sebastian raises a bemused brow before bursting into laughter as the man slumps to the ground, chest heaving with mirth. Oh, Jim loved watching that, no doubt. He grins at where he knows the camera is, tucking his knife away and leaving the room, knife tucked away once again.


	4. In Which Moriarty Writes a Horror Movie

**I've gotten a few requests from ya'll, and I'll talk to my conspirator about them. Thanks for the reviews an d whatnot- don't forget to comment and we'll keep the Sheriarty goodness coming! Oh, and for the record, I'll probably change the name of the story because I'm not going exactly Walt Disney.**

* * *

Sherlock woke up a bit later, some of the liquid still coursing through his veins. He blinked a few times and shakily got up. He had throbbing pain in his arm and across his collarbone. Blood, that was the first thing he noticed. And then there was the fact that he had just fainted. He never fainted. Was that what the capsule did? Make him _weak_? He stood up and fetched his shirt, buttoning it up with shaking fingers.

There's a small cough from one of the chairs, Jim sitting reclined easily. His legs are thrown haphazardly over one armrest, head resting against the other. "Have a nice nap?" he drawls bemusedly.

Sherlock jumped a little, having not noticed Moriarty at first. He stumbled back a bit, but settled his nerves as best as he could. The liquid was wearing off. "Yes, quite nice, considering it got me out of getting mutilated." He said calmly, finishing off buttoning his shirt.

He glances pointedly at the stab wound in his shoulder. "Clearly," he returns dryly"Though by Bastian's standards, that's admittedly nothing."

Sherlock gripped his shoulder. "You said earlier you needed me for tonight." He recalled. "What was that for?" He asked, frowning. He had a pretty good idea of what it meant, though.

Jim sighs, leaning his head back against the arm rest and rolling his eyes, eyelids slipping calmly shut. "Thought we could have dinner and a movie," he drawls.

"That's sarcasm, isn't it? Don't be tiresome- I'm going to be here for a while, but that doesn't mean I'm patient. Tell me what you're planning to do with me next. I'm dead inside, anyways." Sherlock huffed, running a hand through his hair.

"Well, someone sounds depressed," he notes, opening one eye to look at Sherlock. "And on the contrary I was being entirely serious."

"Dinner and a movie? After you sent Moran after me?" Sherlock scoffed. "Fine." He said with resignation. "At least it doesn't involve knives or sex. I could use a break from that." He said softly.

He shrugs at the comment about Moran. "Don't ignore me and we won't have that problem." He waves a hand over in the direction of a tall, thin bookcase. "Movies are in there. Pick one."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll keep that in mind." He muttered, walking over to the bookcase and surveying the movies. He selected one, 'Saw', and tossed it to Moriarty. "Here's a comedy for you." He said with a little smile, then cleared his throat and resumed his neutral face. Had he just made a joke? Ugh.

He laughs, catching the movie easily and chuckling when he sees the cover. "Comedy indeed," he says, flinging his legs off the edge of the chair and walking over to the TV, slipping the disk into the DVD player. "The man has absolutely no idea what he's doing. A saw? Really? One of that size is utterly useless," he sighs exasperatedly, flopping back onto the chair. "Sebbbyyyyyy! Fooood!"

Sherlock sat next to Moriarty, observing the movie with a sort of objective fascination. "This movie seems terribly illogical. How could a cancer patient separated from their medicine pretend to be dead for seven hours without anyone figuring out they were alive? And why wouldn't you just cut the chain with the saw, not your foot?" He commented dryly, crossing his arms, trying hard not to enjoy himself.

Jim turns to Sherlock, raising an amused brow. "You may not be a cancer patient, but you did manage to be 'dead' for three years," he says with a huff. "Although I must agree with the chain comment. And if you're going to do something like this, at the very least use a medical saw instead of running around like a paleolithic lumberjack."

"Mm." Sherlock nodded in agreement. "Everyone in this movie is hilariously idiotic. And they say it's a horror movie." He scoffed. "It is most assuredly a comedy. I mean, look at the way that the irritating one is faking _his _death! It's just awful.

He snorts. "Show a drop of blood and they smack the horror movie label on it. It's utterly ridiculous. Throw some blood and screaming in, a ghost, a serial killer, or a monster and they instantly think it's scary. Real life is far scarier than the foolish movies the make in an attempt to frighten people. People in real life are stupid, but not /this/ stupid."

Sherlock grinned for a brief moment, then stopped himself and nodded curtly. "Hm. Quite." He glanced down. Was he actually enjoying this? Maybe just a tiny bit? He thought to himself, feeling a bit of resentment. Well, he had liked everything before getting stabbed. He sighed and turned away from the gore for a second. He frowned and turned back to the movie. "And the puppet? I mean, really?" He said, smiling very slightly.

Jim rolls his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose and looking absolutely scandalized. "Do not get me started on the bloody puppet." He glances at the telly and groans. "Look at all the evidence the twat's leaving behind! Anyone with a functioning eye could track him down.

Sherlock couldn't help but smile at that. "Quite. I'd have this case solved in five seconds flat. Probably less." He studied his fingernails. "And people think puppets are frightening, but they really could just light him on fire. There are loopholes in every single one of these 'games' as well, that none of these idiots seem to understand."

He waves an arm at Sherlock. "Exactly! I mean, come on, out of all of the people there, none of them have enough logic to get themselves out of this by now? He clearly targeted a group of clowns-in-training for the amount of intelligence his victims are showing. Where's the game in it? You tell them what to do, they die. No stakes, no chess, just blood. Terribly boring. He's clearly an amateur.

"Yes, you're far better at being evil than him." Sherlock rolled his eyes, giving his head a little shake. "I'm sure you'd have these people suffer far more. And this movie is based on the blackmail of two people in an affair who never even started the affair!" He shook his head slightly. "You should write a horror movie- you'd actually get things right."

Jim's lips quirk into a grin at the thought. "If I wrote a horror movie, it'd never even get into the theatres. They wouldn't have a rating suitable to warn the audience," he chuckles. "I mean, there's rated R, and then there's pure unadulterated murder scenes put to music." He sighs, pursing his lips. "It probably wouldn't even finish production. Patrons these days are no fun."

Sherlock shook his head slightly. "I can imagine the filming. 'Screw the special effects, let's just kill the actors!'" He imitated Jim's accent with a little smile, then continued, "I don't care if it's against the law, just stick the hook in her throat! Call it method acting."

He laughs, smiling. "'No, no, no, that's not an agonized scream, only a pained scream! No, no, no, if you used that much force you'd shatter her skull far too soon for it to be painful! No, how many times do I have to tell you- that isn't how you use a stiletto as a weapon! Use your biceps!'" he says, giggling slightly. "The cast wouldn't survive production."

"Hell, they wouldn't survive the audition." Sherlock chuckled softly. "Another thing is, they never try to defend themselves in horror movies. They're being cornered by a serial killer armed with a blunt kitchen knife with terrible visibility because of an idiotic mask, and they don't do anything but scream! Punch him in the throat, kick him in the chest!" Sherlock said, thinking of watching Scream with John.

He nods. "Very true. Also, there's the fact that they're surrounded by weapons if only you get created. Hell, a shoelace could be used as a garrote wire if you needed to! There's no excuse for them standing there screaming like useless paperclips."

Sherlock nodded, resting his head on the back of the couch. He watched as a woman mutilated another man with complete inefficiency and sighed, closing his eyes halfway. He thought for a brief moment about his feelings about staying here, but banished the idea and sighed again, closing his eyes completely.

When Jim looks over again a few minutes later, he can tell that the other man has fallen asleep. He smiles slightly, rolling his eyes as he flicks off the telly and grabs a blanket from the bed, tossing it over Sherlock before silently slipping out of the room, locking it behind him. Dinner, it seems, would have to hold off until breakfast.

**Yes, oh my God, we just made Sheriarty fluff. Deal with it.**


	5. In Which There Is John

**UPDATE: I HAVE FIGURED OUT WHAT THE COLOUR OF SHERLOCK'S EYES IS CALLED: Verdigris! AND IT IS SPECTACULAR! **

**Oh, and every Johnlock fan should pretty much turn and run at this point.**

* * *

Sherlock shifted in his sleep when he felt warmth around him, and his mind faintly registered a blanket. He had odd dreams, one about John, but most of them about Jim. He opened his eyes after a while, noting the blanket around him and raised an eyebrow. Strange that Moriarty would think about his comfort. Speaking of which, his shoulder throbbed. Damn him, he thought bitterly.

Jim had been tapping away at his laptop, working on an Iranian weapons deal, when movement on the CCTV caught his attention. Ah. He was awake, then. He finishes typing up his email- friendly yet threatening in a way only he could pull off. He grabs the first aid kit, taking the elevator down to the floor where Sherlock was being held, unlocking the door and stepping inside. "You missed the ending," he states, setting down the kit on the bed.

Sherlock shrugged. "Pathetically predictable plot. I can guess the ending- the puppet leaves one person alive, traumatised, and everyone else dies. The end." He said, kicking the blanket away dejectedly. His stomach growled a little and he cursed his human needs. "Did you bring any food?" He asked, figuring Jim would make him beg for it or something.

Jim smirks slightly at his interpretation of the ending, nodding. "Sloppy job ending it. Might as well have killed them all. Make it easier to get rid of evidence." He gestures for Sherlock to come over to the bed, flipping open the kit. "Yes, Sebastian's making waffles at the moment." Terribly domestic- but they were quite delicious.

Waffles seemed strangely innocent for Moriarty. True, Sherlock hadn't exactly been expecting murder cereal or psychopath tea, but maybe something a tad less normal. "Thanks." He said softly, ashamed that he was actually thanking this man.

Jim nods in acknowledgement, making an impatient gesture. "Come on, then, or would you rather have a stab wound fester until we wind up being forced to amputate?" he says. "Come here so I can stitch it up."

Sherlock bit the side of his lip. The stab wound was a very painful reminder of what Moriarty could make him into- a weak, helpless mess. He didn't want it to be touched or messed with, but he didn't want his arm amputated (for health reasons or for fun), so he sat up and moved over to where Moriarty was, unbuttoning his shirt and showing the red gash, which had barely healed.

Jim examines the wound as he threads a needle, raising a brow. "You're lucky it was Sebastian. Any deeper and it would have caused a seizure in the muscles." He looks at Sherlock, needle held in one hand and his other braced against the detective's good shoulder. "Do you need something to bite down on?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth and shook his head. At least now he would be able to hide in the recesses of his mind instead of having all his emotions pushed to the surface like when he had gotten the injury. "Just do it quickly." He said, closing his eyes.

He shrugs, lowering the needle and slipping it through the skin quickly. He may not be a doctor, but considering the close calls both he and his men had had, he had rather acquired skill with stitching. The wound was sealed in a matter of moments, neat little rows crossing the now-closed wound. He ties it off and snips it, setting the needle and extra thread in a bag to be dispose of and shutting the kit. "I trust you know how to act with stitches, yes?"

"Of course I do. Gentle actions, don't put too much strain on it." Sherlock muttered, holding his hand over his stitched wound. "I don't need a nurse." He stood up and stretched. "Will I be allowed new clothes, or must I stay in these bloody ones?" His tone a bit sharp, coated with bitterness.

He rolls his eyes at the snapped answer. Not as if he'd be provided a nursemaid anyways. The question, however, he finds amusing, shooting the detective a look. "Well, you could always just walk around naked," he drawls with a smirk.

Sherlock crossed his arms. "You know very well I won't do that. I'd like to save the tiny scraps of dignity I have left, thanks." He said, glaring at Moriarty. He hated his cold eyes, the way they seemed to pierce right through him. It didn't matter if he was wearing clothes or not. Jim always managed to make Sherlock feel exposed.

His brow arches. "I could always make you." The thought is quite entertaining, truthfully. Save quite a bit of time as well.

Sherlock glowered at him. He easily could, and he knew it. "I think I'll keep the bloody clothing on. I'd rather do that than strut around naked for you." He said, crossing his arms.

Jim grins. "Oh, darling, it's not as if I haven't seen it. I do so enjoy a show." Of course he already has clothes for the man, but it's amusing to play the game.

Sherlock took a deep breath. In his sleep, his mind had been concocting a plan, which was highly unstable, but could still work. If he could just act like he was into this, or he liked Moriarty, maybe he could steal his phone and send a message to John or something.

He can see the slight change in demeanour, and gives Sherlock a skeptical look. He's no doubt entertaining some notion of escape- which wouldn't be happening, of course. He rather hoped the man wouldn't try. Being forced to punish him would set him back quite a bit.

Anyways. "John didn't go back to the flat last night- still hurt, I imagine. I had Sebby go get some clothes for you while he's out. Too much trouble to go shopping for entirely new things."

Sherlock glanced down. He knew what Moriarty wanted- he wanted him to start breaking inside. That sick creature. He braced himself for what he was about to do and then sighed softly. "Please stop talking about John." He said, allowing his voice to quiver a little. "It's your fault I hurt him."

It was almost believable. The quiver in his voice ruined it, though. For a man who'd just been talking about maintaining pride, it was unlikely. He decides to go with it, though. Play along. "It's hardly my fault that you begged me to shag you in your own apartment."

Sherlock could tell Moriarty wasn't buying it. He needed to make it more authentic. He steeled himself and then sunk down on the couch, burying his face in his hands. "You manipulated me into it." He said, biting the side of his lip. "I already feel terrible about it, so shut up."

He resists the urge to laugh. Incredibly out of character. The man was slacking off in his acting skills. "Manipulate? Me? Certainly didn't look like that last night when you were practically begging for praise."

Sherlock huffed and removed his hand from his face, laying back against the couch and rolling his eyes. "You're clearly not buying it." He scoffed with irritation. "You could at least _pretend _that I'm convincing you."

He smirks slightly. "Oh, okay. Let me get into character." He turns, and with a slight change in posture and expression he takes on the innocent appearance of Richard Brook. He turns back around, smiling in a friendly manner. "Continue.

Sherlock scoffed and rolled his eyes. "I'm not your entertainment." He said, crossing his arms and crossing his legs. Though he _was _Moriarty's entertainment. His toy. "I don't put on shows. Especially not for people like you."

He laughs, in an instant shifting back into his Moriarty persona. "People like me? I'm flattered, sweetheart, really." He doesn't even bother to correct Sherlock- he already knows that he is a pet, whether he likes it or not.

"Someone _will _come to save me." Sherlock said, sitting up and crossing his arms. "Mycroft saw you leading me out of the flat, drugged. And John saw that I was tied up. You've left behind a lot of evidence that this wasn't on my will." He said, closing his eyes.

"That's assuming, of course, that they care enough to look for you. I mean, all things considered, this saves a lot of work for your dear brother. And I'm not too terribly sure John will care after seeing you panting and begging with my cock in your ass," he shrugs.

Sherlock grimaced. "He cares enough." He said, though he sounded more like he was convincing himself. He didn't have friends, but there had to be _someone_ who cared, he thought desperately, his stomach squirming. What if no one did? He thought, looking down.

He frowns slightly, vaguely irritated that Sherlock wants to leave- though not surprised in the slightest. It'd taken a lot of time to get Sebastian pliant as he was now. The door opens, and the man walks in. Speak of the devil. In his hands he's carrying two stacked plates, piled high with fluffy waffles.

Sherlock glanced up, noticing the food. He was starving, but his situation at the moment made him lose a little bit of his appetite. He bowed his head again, unable to meet Sebastian's eyes. His cheeks burned, but it was mostly a surface response. Underneath, his mind was racing to come to terms with his situation. He was going to be here. Forever. No one was coming.

Jim claps his hands once, looking like an ecstatic child, a giant grin forming on his face vaults the back of the chair, plopping down and making childish grabby hands. "Give them here, Sebby!"

Sherlock sat, his arms still crossed and his head still bowed. He tucked his legs underneath himself and sighed softly. He was hardly acting anymore- he was breaking down. "Sure." He said dejectedly.

He watches the man out of the corner of his eyes as he digs in to the waffles eagerly, noting the dejected look. This was progressing quickly.

Sherlock leaned forward a little and picked up a fork, stabbing the food viciously, then took a bite. It was delicious, of course, but he hardly cared. It was nourishment, that was all.

He hums slightly as he watches Sherlock's expression. He's losing faith a bit, but he still has no doubts that the man will try to escape. Unfortunately for him.

That, however, will come later, if at all. "Like the waffles?" he asks around a mouthful of waffle. Social conventions hardly matter at this point, all things considered. It's not overly obvious anyways.

Sherlock nodded, taking another bite and swallowing it around the lump that was embarrassingly forming in his throat. He finished one and then set the fork down. He didn't want to eat and he knew John would have his neck for this... oh, wait. John was gone, he thought sadly, running his hand through his hair and discreetly wiping away small tears.

Jim scowls at the tears, the man's thoughts obvious to anyone. He misses John. His jaw tightens slightly and he beckons over Sebastian, murmuring nearly inaudible orders into his ear before waving him off, Sebastian nodding as he ducks out.

Sherlock noticed the conversation. "Going to get more emotion revealing liquid? Or more knives?" He asked bitterly, his voice cracking slightly. "Do what you want to me, I don't _care_." He folded his arms over his chest, almost protectively, though he really didn't care. He was a toy forever, and he would never see anyone he loved ever again.

Jim just gives him a smug look, continuing to quietly eat his waffles. The line of his mouth reads as amused, but his eyes appear dark with anger- though it's clearly well repressed. Sebastian doesn't return for a long time- and when he does, there's a smaller unconscious blond in tow.

Sherlock noticed instantly and his mouth dropped. It was all he could do not to run to him and pull him away from Sebastian and pull him away. Help him, somehow. He stared at the blonde, his heart aching a little. He glanced at Moriarty's smug face, and his heart dropped into his stomach. Oh, God, he was going to hurt him, wasn't he?

Jim sets aside the now-empty plate, tilting his head in the direction of the bed, upon which John is plopped unceremoniously. He looks at Sherlock, giving him a small grin. "You're going to be silent. You're not going to cry or wince or scream, or I will introduce Johnny boy to Sebby's gun."

Sherlock turned to stare at his unconscious friend, an unreadable expression coming over his face, terror pumping through him. He clamped his lips shut and nodded curtly, grasping to the last threads of composure he had left with all his might.

He smirks slightly, leaning over and shaking John's shoulder. "Wake u-up, Johnny boy. Time to pla-ay," he singsongs, voice bright and cheery despite the dark meaning of his words that's obvious to anyone. Sebastian has taken up a place by the door, gun held in his hands clasped in front of him coolly.

Sherlock was completely frozen. He wanted to scream out for Moriarty not to hurt John, that he would take his place, make foolish promises to save John's life and virtue. But he couldn't, or he'd condemn him. He felt a choking sob coming up in his throat, and suppressed it the best he could, making a tiny whimper.

John's eyes open, and he's instantly shot backwards into a defensive position when he takes note of his current company. His eyes narrow slightly at Sherlock when he sees him, before returning his attention to Moriarty.

John turned around, trying to get his bearings, taking note of the man with the revolver and the psychopath. Sherlock looked at him, trying to make his situation clear with his eyes. He widened his eyes, furrowing his brow and pleading with his flatmate, who looked at him coldly. But he could see the terror in Sherlock's eyes, and that worried him. "What have you done to Sherlock?" He asked, narrowing his eyes at Jim. "What are you going to do to me?"

Jim rolls his eyes, shooting a look at Sherlock. "Oh, stop, would you? Puppy dog eyes aren't going to do anything but make dear John's situation more precarious." Sebastian cocks the gun pointedly. He turns back to John. "Such a loyal little pet. Asking what I did to your master even when you could be dead any second. It's adorable."

"I'm not his _pet._" John hissed. "I'm his _friend _and I'm concerned for him." He crossed his arms. "Despite what I saw in the flat," He added, glancing over at Sherlock pointedly, who cowered a little bit and drew himself back, closing his eyes.

Jim sighs, looking at Sebastian. The gun fires, immediately drawing the detective's attention, a hole in the wall where John's head had been just a second earlier. "What did I tell you about ignoring me?" he asks brightly, unperturbed.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he stared, biting the side of his lips, studying the gunhole. He nodded numbly, trying not to even blink.

Jim huffs, another bullethole finding its way into the wall next to the last, barely missing the doctor. "I asked you a question, Sherlock."

"You told me not to." Sherlock said through gritted teeth, blushing for John's sake. Since he had been given a green light to speak, he quickly added, "Moriarty, please don't do this." He begged. "Just let John go, please." John was currently frozen to the spot, fear coursing through him.

Two more shots, the second taking off a line of hair along John's scalp- Moran is clearly a sniper for a reason. Jim snarls. "Answer. The. Question."

"You told me not to ignore you!" Sherlock said, his tone panicked and breeching on desperate. John watched, paralyzed, as his friend fell apart. He muttered something under his breath.

Jim doesn't miss the words, and tilts his head, looking sickly-sweet at John. "What was that, dear? I didn't quite catch that."

John turned his head to Moriarty. "Nothing really. Just..." He paused to glance over at Sherlock, then said, "Vatican Cameos!" The instant he said it, Sherlock took cover. It was instinct. John moved and struck Moriarty in the jaw, knowing he dislocated something, then leaped from the bed towards Moran to attempt to wrestle the gun away.

Jim grabs his jaw, laughing slightly even as he painfully relocates his jaw, hissing in pain. The idiot was going to pay for that. He knew Sebastian could hold his own- one who worked for Jim Moriarty had to be able to handle himself in a fight, and Moran was the best. Jim, meanwhile, stalks over to Sherlock, grabbing him by the hair and yanking his head back, jaw working all the while as he tries to get everything back into working order. A dislocated jaw isn't that bad, all things considered. It'd heal relatively quickly- and was far less painful than a broken nose.

Sherlock yelped, writhing in Jim's grip. At the sound from Sherlock, John's attack became slightly more fevered and he finally twisted the gun away from Moran, aiming it at Moriarty, then at Moran. He had taken four shots, which meant there were two left. Perfect.

Jim chuckles, hauling the detective up like a shield in front of him, lips running down the side of his neck. "Go ahead. Shoot. Pull the trigger, Johnny boy. Unless you want this." A vial is pulled from his pocket, held between his fingers.

Sherlock's heart was pounding, and the tongue on his neck was sickeningly familiar. He shut his eyes, willing for all of it to be over. John aimed the gun at Moran, his hand totally steady. "What's that?" He asked cautiously.

"The antidote to the toxin Sebastian slipped into Sherlock's waffles," he replies calmly, smirking widely. "You don't know what toxin it is. Even if you knew where you were- which you don't- and where a hospital was- which you don't- by the time you figured out what it was, dear Sherlock would be dead." It's not entirely true- nothing had been in the waffles. The vial was an antidote, but there was no toxin to counteract in the detective's system at the moment. It's a bluff- but one he knows John won't be willing to risk.

John looked stunned. He hesitated for a moment. Sherlock had, of course, hurt him terribly. But he couldn't let him die. Sherlock, on the other hand thought he deserved to die. He shook his head very slightly at John, blinking a morse code message with his long lashes, which took some repeating for John to get. G-E-T O-U-T. He bit the side of his lip. "What kind of toxin?" He asked. Perhaps he had heard of it, maybe there was an alternate cure. He tried to think like Sherlock would in a moment like this.

Jim snorts slightly. "Well if I told you that, it'd rather eliminate the air of mystery, now, wouldn't it?" He smiles slightly at John, vial held backhandedly so that if, by some chance, Watson was still considering shooting him, it would be clear that the bottle would be crushed.

Sherlock shook his head again, a bit more obviously. G-E-T O-U-T, his eyes begged. John's finger pressed the trigger slightly, then relaxed. He had the situation under control, didn't he? He was the one with the gun. Sherlock thought back to the food he had been given, recalling the taste and the sensation in his body when he ate it. His eyes widened a little and he glanced over at Moriarty, admiring his genius for a moment. Brilliant bluff. John thought everything over. "Let _me _go." He decided. Sherlock nodded slightly at him in affirmation. "Keep Sherlock."

He laughs, mocking, and his knee digs painfully into the small of Sherlock's back. "Shame. I'd grown rather attached to him. I'd give him about ten minutes before unconsciousness." He sighs heavily. "Ah, well. Both of you die, it seems."

Sherlock cried out at the knee in his back, falling to his knees. It was purely theatrical, and he glanced up at John, trying to blink another message to him, but John was focused on how to conduct this. Sherlock wasn't afraid for some reason. John's breath quickened, and he smoothly lied. "I could care less if Sherlock dies. He's yours anyways, do as you like with him. But I have a life that I wouldn't like to lose. So let me go. Keep the bastard, kill him for all I care." He said, spinning the gun in his fingers.

Ooohhh. This just got interesting. Jim raises a brow, a small grin curling his lips. "Alright. How about this? You shoot Sherly here in the head, and I let you walk free."

John paused. Hell. He scoffed. "I'm not wasting one of two bullets on this bastard. Good try." He said, chuckling as though he was in complete control of the situation. Sherlock looked up, pain flashing across his features.

"Well then you're both dead." He shrugs. "It's your choice." He yanks harder on Sherlock's hair, running a hand down his cheek. "Might as well have my fun with him while I can."

Sherlock felt panic growing in his chest. While John stood, unsure of where to take the situation, he tilted his head up a little and said under his breath. " I know it's a bluff." He whispered. But he couldn't let John know that aloud, because they'd loose an advantage of knowledge in the situation. "Let him go and I'll... I'll be a good pet." He continued, his shoulders sagging slightly with surrender.

Jim smirks. He'd figured that Sherlock knew it was a bluff- it'd have taken even him only a few moments. He sighs, forcing Sherlock to turn. "I'm sure you would be. However, you're rather dying at the moment, not that Johnny boy cares, so that's more or less irrelevant." He smirks at John. "Hope you don't mind watching."

Sherlock glared up at him. He knew what he had to do- he had to take away the leverage he offered. He pretended to choke, his eyes rolling back into his head, and fell over, his whole body going limp. He held his breath and let his eyelid flutter, then clawed at his neck while gasping as though asphyxiated. He decided to go with a kind of slow acting cyanide presentation. Once he was finished, John was slightly stunned, but his mind went into denial. It couldn't be real. "Alright. You've done that. Now I've got two bullets and a physical advantage over both of you. Let me go." He said, edging towards the door.

Jim looks down at Sherlock, slightly impressed despite himself. It was a good plan, in theory. Except for the fact that John had provided nothing in return, and now was outnumbered, and, because of the amount of people on the compound, outgunned. "Why should I?"

"Because I'm no value to you." John rolled his eyes, as if it was obvious. "What would you do with me, other than kill me? Sherlock's dead." He tried to keep his voice from cracking. "So where would the fun in torturing me be?" He continued to move towards the door, keeping the gun trained on Moran.

Jim shrugs, grinning. He steps around Sherlock, matching John's strides. "Entertainment value. Target practice. Eliminating loose ends. The pros far outweigh the cons, Doctor Watson."

Sherlock opened one eye, figuring out each person's position from where he was. "Hm. As Sherlock would have said, how dull." John drawled, still trying to act confident. Sherlock moved slowly and silently, grabbing Moriarty from behind and pulling him backwards. "Shoot Moran and run, John!" He yelled. John reacted instantaneously, firing the gun into Moran's arm, or maybe his side. He wasn't sure in the chaos. He wrenched open the door and ran.

**CLIFF HANGAH ENDING!**


End file.
